FEATURED WORKS FROM OUR 2022 TEMPUS ANTHOLOGY

You           And          I

alison davis

You folded yourself into me like origami, your touch so gentle it was almost no touch at all. I wondered if you would fit as neatly into the angles of my life, as you did into the curves of my body.

We packed our suitcases and blazed our way across countries and continents. From the windows of speeding trains, we watched the pale light creep across the sunrise sky and shouted, Look at us, see how in love we are! Nothing could touch us. We were invincible.

We bought a home and filled it with IKEA furniture. I planted a vegetable garden, and it flourished for a while. You learned to make kombucha, even though neither of us really liked the taste.

‘I want children,’ I said.

‘We’ll get a dog instead,’ you replied. ‘Less bother.’ We adopted a rescue dog called Fritz.

Over time, you turned the same colour as the beige walls and carpet, and I could hardly see you. One day, I noticed you had started listening to Radio National.

This morning, we sat together on the deck. Fritz lay between us. Your Weetbix was drowning in honey. My muesli was gasping for air beneath a layer of over-ripe banana. I flicked through my Facebook feed, hoping someone on Buy Nothing was giving away a coffee machine or a bike. We read the newspaper in silence, the rustling our only conversation. There were no more words left. We had poured them all out like stale milk.

YouandI.

You and I.

You                             And                              I.